Gunslingers and Spellcasters
by Dakarne
Summary: d20 ModernDnD, set in a ModernDay earthstyle setting, but with all of the magic and elves existing as part of everyday life. More of a dark detective drama, set vaguely in a modernized DnD World than anything else.


Gunslingers and Spellcasters

Note:

This story is a direct blend of Dungeons and Dragons, d20 Modern and some numerous aspects of d20 Past. It also includes violence, sexual references and some amount of racism from the racist characters herein (rest assured, they DO get exactly what they deserve).

Prologue:

London, 1999

"I though' we said tha' we didn' wan' yer type aroun' 'ere anymoh," The half-orc sneered, glaring into the half-drow's eyes, "Ged ou', or I'm gunna 'af to ge' a li'l bit rough wi' ya." He turned to the other members of his group, "Aren' we lads?"

The half-drow remained defiant, despite being outnumbered on five-to-one odds and at the same time being trapped in a London back alley. He replied in a clear and distinct Scottish accent, which seemed a rather odd accent for a drow to have, "Feck off! I'm no goin' anywhere, yeh bloody guttersnipe."

"Ooh, look a' this, bloody sco' thinks tha' 'e's a tough 'un," One of the gang-members, a halfling, taunted, "Maybe we shoul' teach 'im a lesson."

The gang of five showed their entire agreement by laughing, and proceeding to attack the poor half-drow. The attack was initiated by a human swinging a cricket bat at the half-drow's head, knocking him to the floor, and almost cleanly unconscious. The next one was the halfling, who kicked the downed half-drow in the face. He tried to roll out of the way of the next blow from a half-elf, but was pinned down instantly by the half-orc's large foot. Another gang-member, a dwarf, slammed both of his fists into the half-drow's solar plexus, and then landed a kick to his chest.

The half-drow closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, hoping to endure the onslaught without too much injury, ignoring the pain as much as he could. He received blows everywhere, and most notably a kick to the face.

After a few more moments of attacks, the half-drow was soon left for dead. His half-conscious state could hear their constant laughing, which itself soon faded into the almost silent night, which had only the sound of passing traffic.

The half-drow groaned as he stood gingerly, his entire body shaking from the pain. He assessed his injuries to the best of his abilities, which wasn't saying much, as he wasn't in any way a doctor or a priest. His head ached. It seemed as if his head had been led down in King's Cross Station for a few hours during a fast day, repeatedly stepped on by pedestrians and hurried people of all races. His ribs were probably bruised. And the pain in his left shoulder didn't seem promising.

He made his way to the nearest hospital, which, fortunately for him, wasn't a particularly distant journey. The General Hospital wasn't particularly crowded, so he was seen at reception pretty soon. The light of the hospital revealed the half-drow's features. He had the standard dusky-grey skin and stark white hair of a half-drow. His eyes were reddish-coppery coloured, which contrasted somewhat with his rather casual clothes. The clothes themselves were black, and adorned with 'heretical' imagery, or at least it was heretical to certain religions. He was about five-foot eleven-inches tall.

The kindly-looking old halfling lady at the desk smiled apologetically as he approached, speaking in a soft voice, probably to make the injured half-drow feel a little better, "Yet another dark-elf bein' 'urt by those blinkin' 'ooligans," She sighed, "Name?"

"William," He groaned out, his dusky-grey facial features were somewhat contorted in pain, "William Montgomerie."

She grinned sheepishly, "Can you spell tha' last name ou' for me?"

"M-O-N-T-G-O-M-E-R-I-E." The drow grinned wryly somewhat, "Dinnae worry miss, naeone kin ever spell mah name."

The halfling typed it up, "Are you a full drow or an 'alf-drow?"

"Ah'm half-drow," He replied, "Mah mother was human."

The halfling laughed, "So, you're a Scottish Drow in London?"

"Aye," William laughed, "Ah was raised by me mother in Blairgowrie."

The halfling typed away a bit more at her computer, "Well, we do have an opening for you. Dr. Randhawa will be seeing you in the room through there." She pointed down the corridor to the office at the end, "She's especially good a' treatin' elves for their injuries." She handed him a filled-out appointment card.

The Scottish half-drow flashed a grin, "Thanks lass."

"I'm older than you bloody are." She replied, "I'm ninety years old, I am."

The half-drow grinned wryly, "An' Ah'm a hundred and ninety lass."

"Oh, just get on wi' wha' yer doin'." The halfling sighed exasperatedly.

William grinned and shot her a, "See yeh aroun' lass."

He then left, and walked towards the far door at the end of that corridor, glancing about absently at the stark white walls of the hospital. It was a nice enough place for someone on the mend, but like all things in this world, it could do with serious improvement. As he approached the door, he hesitated for a second before opening. He was treated to the standard doctor's surgery, along with all of the things that came with it, such as various medicines and potions, along with their syringes, which earned a slight shudder from the needle-phobic half-drow.

"I'll be with you in just a second," He heard a feminine English accented woman say from a side room, possibly a storage or lounge room. The half-drow didn't really care.

"Aye, I'll just stand here we all me bruises shall Ah?" The half-drow chuckled, earning a slight jab of pain from one of his ribs. He grimaced and muttered under his breath, "Ah donnae like that sound o' tha'."

Dr. Randhawa finally entered the room, "Oh, another drow being attacked?"

"Aye," The half-drow said calmly, handing over his appointment card, "An' Ah donnae even know any real drow."

The doctor sighed, "It's becoming more and more common these days," She lamented, "And all because a group of rogue drow assassinated a political leader in Iran."

"Ah'm no carin' wha's goin' on in Iran or Iraq or wherever the bloody hell i' is," The half-drow said, "Sure, i's impor'an' bu' i' shouldn'ae be affectin' we half-drow."

The doctor grimaced, "They killed a drow mage just last week, because of the overlying ban on magic in public places. He couldn't defend himself adequately."

"Aht's terrible it is," The half-drow said, "Ah'm no even much o' a fighter mahself," He grimaced, as if it hit a nerve, "Ah'm just a low-level mage who kinnae cas' spells we the laws."

Dr. Randhawa sighed, "I'm going to have to work on your injuries out sooner or later," She glanced at his entire figure, "Where does it hurt the most?"

"Mostly on me head," He said, "And me torso."

The doctor somehow gained a slightly wicked glimmer in her eyes for a split-second. William wrote it off as nothing important. Until she said, "Take off your shirt, and we'll have a look."

"Aye, okay then," He said, removing his beaten and torn shirt, revealing his lightly muscled frame, he most certainly wasn't a fighter, though he looked like he could hold his own in a fistfight for a little while, "It's mostly aroun' the chest."

"I see," She said, "There's a lot of bruising around your ribs, but not much else as far as I can see." She then placed a hand, feeling up and down the half-drow's ribs to check for any breakages. It did earn a slight grunt of pain from him.

"Wha's the diagnosis?" William asked.

The doctor looked him up and down a few more times, "A hairline fracture on one of your ribs, and a mild concussion, or at least that's what my divination can detect."

"So, are ye jus' gonnae cast a healin' spell on meh?" The half-drow asked, "Or is there more trea'men' needed?"

The doctor grinned, "No, you'll be a little sore for a few hours but, other than that, you'll be fine."

"Thank yeh," The half-drow smiled, "If on'y they would mehk the laws as effective as the hospitals."

The doctor nodded, placing a hand on William's shoulder and chanted a few words, "Rememdium Ictus."

The bruises faded visibly within a few seconds, and the half-drow sighed in relief, "Tha's much be'er." He added, "Thanks doctor, Ah'll be on mah way."

"There's a payphone outside if you want to call a taxi." The doctor offered helpfully.

The half-drow nodded, "Aye, Ah saw one on mah way in."

"Goodbye, and good luck, Mr. Montgomerie." Dr. Randhawa said.

William sighed, "Goodbye, Ah guess," The half-drow lamented, "Ah'll be goin' back te Blairgowrie soon anyway, London is annoyin' me we all the attacks recently."

"Well," The doctor said calmly, "I honestly don't blame you."

"Again, thanks for all yer help. Ah'll be on me way then." The half-drow said before leaving the room. He made his way to that payphone he'd seen earlier, and called one of the taxi companies which had left their advertised phone numbers nearby.

After a few rings, he heard a click, and then a middle-eastern sounding male voice, "Hello, this is StreetCab, how may we help you?"

"Ah'd like te get a car from London General Hospital please," The half-drow asked politely, "If that isn'ae too much trouble."

The man sighed, "Where would you like us to pick you up?"

"Just outside the main entrance," William said calmly.

The middle-eastern man was silent for a few seconds, "Sure, a car will be there in about five minutes."

"Thank yeh." The half-drow said, "Ah appreciate it." The drow used the next few minutes to re-evaluate his position in the world. He wouldn't have much of a future in the United Kingdom, not even in Scotland. There were too many laws prohibiting forms of self-defence that he decided to go somewhere else, not in Britain. He'd go somewhere where he'd have no problems defending himself.

After a few more minutes of waiting, a labelled Ford Sierra pulled up alongside the road, a middle-eastern man leaned out of the window and grinned. He asked, "Was it you that called for a taxi?"

"Aye," The half-drow said, "Tha's me."

The middle-eastern man nodded, "Get in then, we don't have all night."

"A'righ', a'righ'," The half-drow laughed.

"So," The taxi-driver said, "Where to?"

"Drury Lane," William said, "Ah'll on'y be five minu'es, jus' gettin' some more money an' me passpor'." He continued, "An' then te Heathrow, because Ah'm leavin' Bri'ain, for good."

"Oh?" The taxi driver said, pulling the car out into the road, "I can't blame you either way." The man laughed, "Well, we'll be there in five minutes tops."

"Good," The half-drow said, "I can't wait to get out of this hellhole."


End file.
